


Circling the Sun

by dasedandconfuzed



Series: All Roads [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - what if, Angst with a Happy Ending, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Chronological, Off-Screen Racism, Paris is it's own character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 08:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10184747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasedandconfuzed/pseuds/dasedandconfuzed
Summary: Viktor is moving backwards through time, trying to go back to when everything was easy and Yuuri is moving forwards, trying to keep everyone happy, even if it means he's unhappy. They're going to get their happy ending, they just need to get to the right time and place.Wherein Viktor and Yuuri meet in America, five years before they were meant to, right as Viktor begins his legend and right before Yuuri is anything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [aubreyli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/pseuds/aubreyli) who saw two versions of this fic—the first of which was an absolute shit show—and told me what I needed to hear to get this to where it is.
> 
> And special thanks to [purplespacecats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplespacecats/pseuds/purplespacecats), whom I fed the fluffy parts to as a cheer up and wound up drawing fanart for it (forthcoming) and whose late-night texting led helped me puzzle out some of the characters.

* * *

i.

* * *

 

 **Viktor, 27  
** **Tokyo, March 2016**

 

His short program was magnificent, astonishing. Viktor had too much PR training for his irritation to show on his face, and it was rude to critique a reporter for doing their job, but could anyone blame him? 

It seemed, for every year he defended his title, journalists decided to tack on another syllable to the praise. What was great became superb became excellent became magnificent. What word would they dig up when Viktor claimed the gold for a fifth time? _They’ll probably make one up_ , Viktor thought. 

At that he heard Yuuri, singing an absurd American song.  

“How many medals,” Yuuri had teased, “will it be before they call your performances supercalifragilisticexpedalidocious?” 

But thinking about Yuuri was painful. So he forced himself to think about his magnificent short program. 

 _Revelatory_ , his mind supplied the five-syllable word.

“Mr. Nikiforov? How do you feel about the latest news?” 

Viktor snapped back to attention to the smiling reporter. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was distracted, may you repeat what you said?”

The reporter said something about Yuuri and Viktor forced himself to push past a storm of emotion until there was nothing at all.

~*~ 

There was a list of things he had to do the next few days.

He had to contact a musician about his music next season. He had to set up meetings with the representatives of _Vogue_. He had to break his other world records. He had to skate the free program of his life.

Figure skating was his life. He was, after all, the best male’s figure skater in the world. How could his life be anything but figure skating?

Viktor said that last part again, hours later. At least, that’s what Viktor thought he slurred at Christophe, who had ushered him back to the hotel and tried to confiscate the vodka Viktor had been chugging. It hadn’t worked. 

“To Viktor Nikiforov,” Christophe saluted in Viktor’s too-large hotel suite, “whose figure skating broke everyone’s heart.” 

Viktor, smarting over sports media’s newest scoop, raised his own glass. It was vodka. He knew. Christophe had tried to switch it out for water, but he could never fool a Russian.

“To Viktor Nikiforov, too good for losers who just give up.” 

Viktor got Christophe after the break-up, Yuuri knew him first, but Viktor was friends with him first. But when Christophe raised his glass in sympathy, his mouth was pressed into a line of restrained contempt. 

 _What?_ Viktor thought, raising the glass to his lips, _was that too far? Did you like Yuuri better too?_

Yuuri retired and couldn’t even send him a text message about it. He was a coward. Viktor was completely within his rights.

~*~

What combination of events led to Viktor’s pulsing hangover? A shot. _No, several shots_ , Viktor amended. Thin beams of light slanted into the luxurious suite, setting his temples aflame. Yakov was going to be pissed. He forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the bed but his limbs were sluggish with alcohol. _Forget Yakov_ , Viktor’s mind screeched, _you’re competing tomorrow,_ I’m _pissed._

“Fuck,” Viktor said. His head throbbed as he said it so he said it again as he searched under the covers for his phone. He pressed the home button, _14:19_.

“Fuck,” Viktor swore again, palming his forehead and then combing through his bangs. It was fine. He would stay in bed all day, drink water, he’d be fine for tomorrow. He’d skate a career-best tomorrow and everything would be fine.

 _I’m sorry, Yakov,_ Viktor mentally rehearsed, _you heard the news? Yes? Well I had to drink to Yuuri’s retirement!_ No, bad, it was better to show up half-drunk and apologize in person than to do it on the phone. On cue, his phone buzzed to life and he groaned. Of course Yakov would call right before he figured out how to formulate an excuse.

_Better to answer that now before he gives you more hell later._

Viktor exhaled and picked up his phone. 

It wasn’t Yakov. 

It came back in a rush. 

He had called Yuuri last night. In the second bar as Christophe was talking with an impeccably dressed businessman, Viktor excused himself and stumbled into the bathroom, gripping at the edges of the sink as he stared at the mirror. He looked like a ghost under the bathroom’s dim lights. Or maybe he always looked like a ghost. Viktor didn’t know, his thoughts were a long, long of jumble of things he couldn’t say to Christophe.

Angry and upset he had stared at his phone, thumbing through his contacts list. _Love of Mine,_ he read and then he pressed call. The phone rang and rang until a terrible automated voice spoke.

_You can’t even fucking answer me._

It reverberated in the perfect acoustics of the bathroom and Viktor realized he’d said that aloud into the phone. It felt good.

His phone bleeped and Viktor dialed again and again.

“You couldn’t even break up with me properly,” he hissed into the phone after the fifth unanswered call, “you had to do it in a fucking figure skating routine. And then you call me out of the blue begging for another shot and next I see you, you’re hanging all over _Phichit_? You know what? I saw you two together. I know you lied. You were in Milwaukee. And I saw you and—” 

The dial tone beeped and Viktor called again, wanting to finish the thought but everything had fled. On the seventh call, he had whispered, “You just disappeared. You dropped off the face of the planet. And I have to find out about this over the internet?” On the ninth call: “Are you retiring? Are you retiring Yuuri? How selfish, I never knew you were a selfish man.”

The call ended and Viktor snapped back to the present when a notification popped up: _You have 1 new voice message._

Viktor couldn’t even remember what else he had said on calls 10-17. He didn’t think it was good. _Just deal with it._ He pressed play. Yuuri’s voice was hollow, the sound of it turned Viktor’s heart, “My dog died, Viktor. That’s what happened.” 

There was a long pause. Viktor knew Yuuri enough to fill the blanks of the silence: Yuuri, holding his phone with nerveless fingers, trembling. Yuuri, licking his constantly chapped lips. Yuuri, summoning up the nerve to say his piece.

“Phichit was there for me. He’s been there. When I couldn’t sleep. When I slept too much. When I didn’t eat and when I ate too much. I have problems, Viktor. Completely outside of you. I couldn’t be your perfect boyfriend all the time—even if I wanted to be—and one day I woke up and— _surprise_.”

“Are you happy now? Go and defend your title, Viktor, god knows that’s the only thing you care about.” 

~*~

“Viktor Nikiforov is dead,” Yuri Plisetsky will pronounce, later.

In the distance, Christophe Giacometti will smile at the crowd, a gold medal on his chest.

~*~

 

 **Yuuri, 18  
** **Detroit, March 2011**

 

The first and only time Katsuki Yuuri saw a World Championships live was the time it was in Fukuoka five years ago. 14-years old with barely an accolade to his name, Yuuri had watched, astounded as Japan’s Ace proceeded to destroy his competition.   
****

Yuuko had raced from their seats to the stands when the skater collected gifts from the audience. Urged by his ballet teacher, Yuuri raced after Yuuko and stuck his hand out as Ichiru skated by.

“Hisakawa-dono!” Yuuko had yelled, “One day my best friend will skate with you!”

That had caught his attention and he paused in front of Yuuko, who then shoved Yuuri in front of her.

“What’s your name?” Ichiru had asked to a blushing Yuuri. 

“K-katsuki Yuuri.”

He was a fresh face amongst Japan’s competitive figure skating circuit, but Hisakawa Ichiru had smiled in recognition. “Katsuki? I heard of you. Work hard and we’ll both skate for Japan!”

Yuuko had screamed about it for days. 

Five years later, Katsuki Yuuri was in America furthering his figure skating career and perfecting his English for the time he would help run Yu-topia Hot Springs. He hadn’t been selected to Japan’s Worlds team and only just broke the top five at Four Continents. His English, however, was improving in leaps and bounds.

It put into perspective which future held more promise for him. But then Celestino presented him with a free ticket to the World Championships. It was wrapped in shiny paper with tiny cartoons of Ichiru skating. 

“You need to see your future!” Celestino had said.

Maybe Yuuri’s English wasn’t that good? That didn’t sound right.

“Thank you,” Yuuri had said.

Best not argue. Even if the paper wrapping had tiny Ichirus, the ticket was Yuuri’s chance to see Viktor Nikiforov skate in person.

When the competition arrived, Yuuri and Celestino sat in the stands, astounded as 23-year old Viktor finally managed the impossible. 

“No one else,” Celestino whispered when the program ended and the scores came out. The judges had awarded Viktor maximum points for the flip. Yuuri released a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. “ _God_ he may be better than Ichiru.”

Viktor was better. He took the gold medal. 

Viktor had been much better. _So_ much better. It had been a miracle Yuuri could keep his face straight when he gave Ichiru his condolences, but he hadn’t been able to keep his awestruck impression at bay when Viktor walked past. He and a severe-looking woman had been speaking in Russian, but Viktor caught Yuuri’s eye and stopped, turning to face him. 

“Do you want a photo?” Viktor said casually. “Sure!” he answered when Yuuri had been too busy trying to puzzle out what to call Viktor Nikiforov to answer.

Yuuri always heard you should never meet your idols, that they always disappointed you. But Viktor Nikiforov had cut off a conversation because Yuuri had stared a second too long. He also smelt like untouched ice. Yuuri knew this now because Viktor had pressed in close and slung an arm around his shoulders; the heat of him radiating through the back of Yuuri’s sweater, warming him. 

“Smile!” Viktor said, angling his head so that the long sweep of his ponytail swooshed over Yuuri’s naked neck. 

Yuuri was certain he had been beet-red in that photo.

“It’s cute,” Viktor said when he handed Yuuri back his phone.

“Th-thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Yuuri. Katsuki Yuuri.”

“Well,” Viktor smiled, “here’s hoping we meet again.”

Courage shot through Yuuri’s veins at the sight of Viktor’s smile. He turned to move, his ponytail swishing behind him, but Yuuri was drunk on courage and he yelled out, “I’ll skate on the same ice as you one day!”

Viktor’s smile was close-mouthed and warm when he turned back to Yuuri. “Yes,” he said, “one day soon.” 

Yuuri clung to that, let that ring around his head as Viktor walked away.

 

 

* * *

ii.

* * *

 

 **Viktor, 26  
** **St. Petersburg, January-March 2015**

 

A torturous week after their fight, Viktor succumbed and contacted Yuuri.

“ _I can’t wait to see you in March.”_

Simple. Short. It had taken Viktor an hour to settle on that, and then several more hours to build up the nerve to send it. Yuuri, though, stayed silent for days before responding, “ :) ” and nothing else. Had it been anyone but Yuuri, Viktor would have called bullshit and barreled on with a text barrage, but Yuuri had a way of shutting out the world. 

Viktor would happily describe it to anyone who listened: “He’s as blind as a bat! Can’t see anything but what’s in front of him!”

It was a good metaphor. But there were thousands of miles between them and tunnel vision was a terrible thing in long-distance relationships. Especially with the dozen things left unresolved from that last fight. 

But he would succumb again and scroll through Instagram. “Can’t see anything,” Viktor whispered into Makkachin’s fur, thumb hovering over a photo of Phichit and Yuuri, at a party, smiling at nothing.

 **3 days ago  
** four hours till morning practice **#thebestlifechoices**

“—but what’s in front of him.”

~*~

 _It was a meaningless fight,_ Viktor reminded himself in the middle of a late-night practice. 

Most skaters were prone to bringing all their problems to the ice, but Viktor had the talent to block out the specifics and channel formless emotion into his performance. His first lover said he was a monster for it; his second had accused him of mining relationships for material. Viktor told them both the same thing: He was an artist. 

His skating that day, fueled by impatience and melancholy, had been sublime. 

(It was terrible: his free skate was about the joy of love.)

 _It meant nothing,_ Viktor assured himself, _we’ll talk in Sochi._

But something was gnawing at him from the inside-out. The rink was empty, all of the skaters ensconced at home. Viktor could shatter the perfect stillness with one word, one sigh. He could scream. Vent. Would the ice carry that sound back to him? He didn’t want to know. This was his rink, his ice. Why should he disturb it for something as inconsequential as a fight?

Viktor had to do something. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen for minutes. _I’m sorry,_ he typed quickly, _It was irrational, I was jealous. I don’t have to be the one person making you happy, I just want you to be happy with me._

It felt wrong. Viktor deleted the last part and rewrote, _I just want to be happy with you._

Viktor stared at the screen. _Am I not happy?_ he asked himself. Why had he even brought up Phichit? There was an unending stream of people who loved Yuuri, who Yuuri loved in turn, and who made Yuuri happy. It never bothered Viktor before, but it had hurt more than falling to see the shine of Yuuri’s eyes as he talked about Phichit. Phichit was there, with Yuuri, living with Yuuri, skating with him, and—. 

The terrible truth was that Yuuri had a life outside of Viktor. Had a life without Viktor.

Viktor was standing on his life without Yuuri with the awful realization that it inspired nothing in him. Perfect stillness.

“I think about you,” Viktor said out loud, “every moment of every day, but I don’t think you do the same.”

The ice didn’t carry it back, but it rung like a knell in Viktor’s head. 

What an unthinkable thought. But why, if it were unthinkable, did he say it out loud? Ashamed, Viktor erased the entire text message. _We’ll talk in person_ , he thought, and then, to vanquish what he brought to the ice, he said aloud. “We’ll talk in person.”

~*~

Viktor doesn’t know how to do relationships well.

Even if Yuuri were with him, Viktor wouldn’t know how normal couples fight and argue and make-up and start all over again. Domesticity. Slice of life. He thought he knew, that golden summer he lived in Yuuri’s dormitory—Yuuri’s secret, Yuuri’s lover, Yuuri’s.

Being Yuuri’s was easy. As easy as figure skating. Before he met Yuuri, Viktor didn’t think he had any talents outside of that. 

But Yuuri was better at being Viktor’s. A week later, he reached across the divide: _Kat finally finished her arrangement and I’ve been on the ice 24/7. I’m sorry I haven’t been responding, please, it’s not your fault._

And Viktor had stared at it, overjoyed and with hearts in his mouth instead of words. 

 _It’s going to be amazing!_ Viktor typed out, and then, _But you better step up your game, Katsuki, I’m gonna give it my all so you better get out of warm-up mode!_

It was an odd promise, but Viktor would stick by it. He let himself get lost in practice the next few weeks. He would show Yuuri what his love could do.

~*~

“From Japan, Yuuri Katsuki!”

The music was a far-cry from the operatic pieces that Celestino forced onto his top skaters, but Yuuri had a way of drawing music out of thin air, and he drew an orchestra out of the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_N_Ck1KcAEo).

He was telling a story. Yuuri was always good at it, better than anyone suspected. Viktor admired Yuuri’s skating, there was something unflinching in his best performances—he could fit a story, full of rises and falls and lulls, in the scant minutes of a program.

Today, Katsuki Yuuri was telling _their_ story.

It was the single most devastating thing Viktor had ever seen. He sat numbly and that thought, weeks old, rose back up: _I just want you to be happy with me._

The music stopped, aching and unresolved. Yuuri stopped and the world began again with thunderous applause.

Viktor felt Christophe’s hand, warm and steady, fall on his shoulder. _Yes_ , Viktor thought, now aware that he was surrounded by figure skaters, _you need to show how proud you are of your boyfriend._

Viktor stood, Viktor applauded, Viktor smiled. When Christophe hissed to “smile nicely”, Viktor dropped his smile. 

 _Why_ , Viktor thought, flat-mouthed and steely-eyed, _would you bring this to the ice?_

Viktor went back to the waiting room and staunchly Yuuri when he stepped in with Celestino. He traced the fire-red crystals emblazoned across his heart, distracting himself from Yuuri, standing meters away, talking to an awestruck reporter. When it was his turn to perform, he thought about Yuuri, let the image go, and then channeled the confusion and frustration and love into his program.

He finally understood it. It was always more difficult to convey pure happiness on the ice, but heartbreak? That’s what his program needed. 

Yuuri won a silver medal, just barely edging out Christophe, with “This Place is a Shelter”. 

But the distance Viktor’s heartbreak put between him and Yuuri was astounding. It would be laughable to even suggest that Yuuri came close to beating him.

 _Congratulations,_ Viktor forced himself to look forward, to smile and kiss his medal—everyone was watching. _You got yourself a medal_.

When they got off the ice, Yuuri tugged at the edge of his costume. “Viktor, I think—”

“No,” Viktor cut him off, “no, I’ve heard you loud and clear.”

His eyes were swimming and Yuuri reached up, brushing Viktor’s bangs, but making no move to wipe away his tears.

“What are you doing?” Viktor asked.

“Oh,” Yuuri said, “I’m just surprised to see you cry.”

Viktor was no longer numb, he was angry. “I’m mad!”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri said, his hands pressed against his sides, far from Viktor. “I just didn’t know.”

“That I can cry?” Viktor hissed.

Viktor turned and started walking away. If Yuuri was so unhappy with him why didn’t he say anything? Why couldn’t he just talk with Viktor? Viktor thought about turning around and lobbing those questions back to Yuuri, but the sound of his shoes against the concrete ground rang loud and true. Shouldn’t Yuuri be collapsing onto the ground, crying? 

Viktor forced himself to keep walking, obviously their relationship could be parried down to a silver medal finish, to performance fodder. Wasn’t it all fucking ironic.

When he arrived at his hotel room, he took out his wallet and nearly pulled it apart by the seams prying a photograph from it. For a second, he stared at it, trying to recreate that moment where they were bathed in light, wrapped in each other. But he was in Sochi, not Paris, and the room was too dark and his hair too short.

He tore it to shreds. And then, staring at the strips of light, he reached to try and piece it back together.

 

~*~

 

 **Yuuri, 19  
** **Paris, March 2012**

 

_This is not a fluke. You deserve to be here._

Weeks after he was selected onto Japan’s delegation to the Figure Skating World Championships, Katsuki Yuuri was still murmuring these sentences to himself. Celestino had overheard him whispering them once and clapped him on the back, “Of course you deserve to be here, Yuri!”

It was the nth time he’d mispronounced Yuuri’s name. Yuuri hadn’t bothered to correct him. He also made a point to not be caught saying his daily mantra. He told himself it was because his English was insufficient for either conversation.

Watching the medal ceremony, Yuuri knew he didn’t deserve to be there. He hadn’t even broken the top 10. The crowd was clamoring around him—Viktor Nikiforov’s performance had been sublime—but not even the Russian prodigy’s megawatt smile could blind Yuuri to the disappointment writ large on the Japanese section of supporters.

 _I’m sorry,_ Yuuri thought, staring past the podium to that mass of faces. They were blurring, twisting. Yuuri knew that if he stayed, the anonymity of the crowd would have shattered. One by one, they would have transformed—Minako-sensei, his mother, his father, Mari, Yuuk—.

“I need to go,” Yuuri gasped.

“Yu—”

Celestino hadn’t had the chance to mispronounce his name again, because Yuuri had stumbled out of the stands and raced towards the exit. 

He tore off his lanyard with nerveless fingers when he stepped out into the cold Parisian night. Mindlessly, he began walking along the sidewalk, ignoring the leagues of people milling past.

Where had he gone wrong? _Where?_ He had stuck his landings and his step sequences felt clean. Celestino’s face had even lit up when he was ushered off the ice after the free skate. 

“You did well,” he had said and Yuuri had warmed from the inside-out. But then he saw his score.

Yuuri stuck his hand into his pocket and ran his thumb along the cheap plastic of his I.D. badge. _Yuuri KATSUKI_ , he could imagine the roman letters spelling, _Japan_. 

 _Your problem,_ his mind whispered, _is that you aren’t Ichiru._

That was the heart of it wasn’t it? The relentless beat of life: the old gets replaced with the new, the better, except Katsuki Yuuri wasn’t better than Ichiru, but he was the one who rode along the coattails of a figure skating giant. 

 _You also aren’t Viktor_ , the voice said.

The thought stopped Yuuri in his tracks. He shuddered out a breath and looked up into the starless night. It looked just like Detroit, massive and wide. He wished, not for the first time, that he could be back in Hasetsu, where the night sky was lit with stars.

Overwhelmed, Yuuri looked back down. It was dark and people were milling about him. Some, he now realized, were looking at him strangely and Yuuri remembered that it was a cold, winter night and he was only wearing a track-suit over a thin tee shirt. His ears burned at the same time his body realized the full force of the cold. 

He looked at the street, saw a bakery and remembered that dinner was overdue, that he should be hungry, so he ducked inside.

“Hello,” Yuuri greeted in slow English, to an older man behind rows and rows of empty shelves. “Do you have anything left?”

The man looked at him blankly before muttering in rapid French. Yuuri blinked. “French,” he translated, “speak French?” 

He looked angry and Yuuri shrunk a little. It was rude to assume that everyone in Paris spoke English, but Yuuri knew only French greetings.

“It’s fine,” Yuuri blurted out, stepping backwards already. The man was unmoved and Yuuri remembered that he said that, too, in English. Yuuri tried again, “Bonjour!” _No,_ he thought, _wrong one. Just leave. Don’t look back—_

A hand touched his shoulder.

Yuuri leapt up at the sudden contact, but the person holding him still put weight into the hold. “Don’t go,” he heard behind him, “I can help. Parisians can be very unreasonable when it comes to non-French speakers. What do you want?”

“Something to eat.”

“I can do that.”

The man behind him said something indecipherable to the worker behind the counter and he started wrapping up a lone loaf of bread. “Do you like pork?” Yuuri’s savior said behind him, guiding him towards the register, “everything else is sweet and you looked hungry, so I ordered ham and cheese stuffed bread.”

Yuuri’s mouth watered thinking about it. He slowly pushed the hand off his shoulder to turn around, a thank you on his lips— his breath caught in his throat and his eyes went wide. 

Viktor. Viktor Nikiforov. 

Viktor was standing behind him, resplendent in an expensive looking peacoat and slacks. Viktor had touched him. Viktor had spoken French to help Yuuri buy a meal he should have eaten an hour ago.

Viktor was smiling and reaching for his hand. “Hello,” he said, eyes glued to Yuuri’s face. Was he speaking English or French or Russian? Yuuri couldn’t tell. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri croaked, paling as he said it. He coughed and tried again, “Better now. That there’s food. I mean—that you got me food. Helped me get food! Im paying of course!”

Viktor laughed and Yuuri felt himself turn red again. He heard a cough from behind the register and turned, grateful for the opportunity to compose himself. “How much?” Yuuri said to the man, pulling out his wallet.

The Frenchman looked over Yuuri’s shoulder and said something pointedly to Viktor. Viktor said something back, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder. “Sorry, now that he knows you’re with a French speaker, it’s like you don’t exist,” Viktor said. “It’s 3 euros.”

Yuuri counted out the coins and handed them to the now-bemused shopkeeper, taking a beautifully-scented bag of bread in exchange. Reluctantly, he pulled out of Viktor’s hold to move back. Viktor did nothing, just stared at him for the longest time.

“Well,” Yuuri said, “thank you…?”

“No problem! I’d do it for anyone!” Viktor winked at the last part. 

There was a long moment where Yuuri was just staring at Viktor, who was staring right back at him. Yuuri didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t know what to say to prolong the conversation. 

“Aren’t you going to buy something?” Yuuri ventured.

Viktor blinked, “Oh yes, silly me!” He didn’t turn to look at the shopkeeper though, instead he kept his eyes back at Yuuri and cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. I’m Viktor.”

He held his hand out, but Yuuri made no move to shake it. “I’m Yuuri,” he said, carefully, “Yuuri Katsuki.”

Viktor’s eyes brightened. “That’s a wonderful name!”

“I’m a skater,” Yuuri added, desperate.

“Were you at the competition today? I don’t think I saw you today.”

“Not today,” Yuuri said, forcing himself to keep eye contact with Viktor. “But before, we met before.” 

Viktor looked surprised at that. 

“At the World Championships,” Yuuri forced out, watching Viktor’s eyes dim, his mouth flatten, “in Detroit.” 

Viktor nodded, but Yuuri could see a distant expression in his eyes. _He doesn’t remember me_ , Yuuri realized. “It’s fine,” he said, “I just asked you for a photograph.”   
****

Illogically hurt, Yuuri bowed his head in gratitude. “I’m sorry, I have to return to the hotel, my coach is waiting for me.”

He pushed out of the store before he could hear Viktor’s response and let the cold air hit him. He needed to recenter himself, to think. He had no right to be hurt: Yuuri was one out of dozens of people who got photos with Viktor in Detroit. So what if Yuuri remembered? Of course Yuuri remembered. Who would forget meeting Viktor Nikiforov? Yuuri was no one, how could he expect Viktor to remember him?

“You look deep in thought. Are you lost?” Yuuri was drawn out of his thoughts but that same voice. “It’s terrible to be lost in a country you don’t speak the language.”

 _No way._ Yuuri wheeled around and saw Viktor Nikiforov standing behind him.

“I’m not lost,” Yuuri lied, hoping it would get Viktor Nikiforov to leave. He looked unmoved so he added, “And my English is good. I can use that.”

Viktor smiled, “You’re going back to the hotel?” 

“Yes.”

Viktor’s smile grew, “then I’ll tag along, yes?”

Yuuri held out a hand, “I don’t—I’d—”

“You _are—”_ Viktor stepped in closer. He was taller and broader and—apparently—had zero compunctions about invading the personal space of strangers. “—going back to the hotel, right?” _If I knew where it was,_ Yuuri thought, _yes, I’d go there_. “I’m going there, too. You can’t stop me from walking in the same direction as you, can you?”

Viktor used the pointer of his free hand to tap against his chin, “And you can’t stop me from walking _near_ you as we walk in the same direction, correct?”

Yuuri knew he was being steamrolled into something. Viktor wanted to apologize—he was always nice to his fans—and he wanted to spend the entire walk back to the hotel saying sorry when he had nothing to be sorry about. Unwilling to let this happen without protest, Yuuri blurted the first thing that came to mind: “It’s a free country.” 

Viktor looked at him with an unplaceable expression and Yuuri used the few seconds of his confusion to spin around and walk towards a brightly-lit area. After a few paces, he could hear Viktor run up behind him.

“So,” Yuuri heard after a long stretch of time, “you’re from Japan?”

Yuuri waited three paces before responding. “Yes.”

“Wow, your English is amazing!”

At least Viktor was walking behind him. 

“Not particularly.” 

One step.

“Is this your first time in France?”

Four steps.

“Yes.”

One step.

“And is this your first Worlds?”

Two steps.

“As a competitor, yes.”

One step. A beat where Yuuri couldn’t hear Viktor behind him. 

“Were you happy with your performance?” 

Yuuri couldn’t lie convincingly, so he asked back, “were you happy with yours?”

Twelve steps before Viktor answered. “Not really.” 

Yuuri resisted the urge to stop, but he found himself slowing. “You won gold.”

He could hear Viktor exhale, “Yes, but I didn’t do better than last year.”

“You set a new record.”

“Because I had more quads than anyone else.” Viktor added after a pause, “it felt different—I don’t think I was surprising anyone today.”

“A surprise would have been you not winning gold.”

Viktor’s laugh was a bark. It was so undignified and ugly-sounding that it drew Yuuri to a halt. “Not like that,” Viktor said, “Kostner is retiring this year— _his_ routine was sublime. An absolute joy to watch. Every moment of it felt fresh and exciting.”

Yuuri, who only had eyes for Viktor, felt ashamed for missing the Italian skater’s farewell performance. No one had expected his silver medal win. 

“I want to be like that every time, a surprise.” 

Viktor’s voice was wistful, but something lurked under that romantic sigh. Yuuri didn’t think Viktor meant to say it out loud, but he did, and some base part of Yuuri—the competitor, the athlete—wanted to nod and agree.

 _Of course,_ a voice whispered in Yuuri’s head, sounding too much like Viktor, _you performing well would be a surprise. No wonder you aspire to that._

Viktor would never say that. It was wrong for Yuuri give all his doubts Viktor’s voice, to twist something Viktor hadn’t meant him to hear into something else. Why would Viktor Nikiforov even talk to Yuuri about figure skating?

 _No_ , Yuuri thought, turning to look at Viktor. He was still and quiet, head tilted so that his long sheet of hair shadowed half his face. He was waiting for Yuuri to say something. Viktor had meant for Yuuri to hear it.

A stray breeze picked up strands of Viktor’s silver hair and it unfurled like a ribbon towards Yuuri, so long that the ends of it brushed against his cheeks. They felt like pinpricks, sparks of electricity against his face. Yuuri closed his eyes and forced his hands still, to keep himself from reaching to grab at Viktor’s hair, to brush them behind Viktor’s ears. Viktor was still smiling when Yuuri summoned up the nerve to open his eyes and look at him. 

Yuuri didn’t know what to do with this.

“I don’t know where I’m going. I’m lost.”

“Wow,” Viktor teased, “how surprising.”

Yuuri blushed.

Viktor studied his face for a long time and then moved to stand next to him. His shoulders brushed against Yuuri’s. He hadn’t stood this close to Yuuri for a year. “Look ahead.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Yuuri said. 

“To be honest, I hate the after-parties, there’s only so long you can schmooze the same people, so I was planning on buying a bottle of wine, maybe some bread,” Viktor held up his bag and Yuuri realized there _was_ a wine bottle in there, “and drinking along the banks of the Seine under the light of the Eiffel Tower.”

“N _ow_ , if someone were to walk with me and sit near me and to, say, drink this same wine… well… I couldn’t stop them, could I? It is, after all, a free country.”

Yuuri turned. Under his long, glowing hair, Viktor’s eyes were bright and smiling, an open invitation. Yuuri smiled and saw, for the first time, Viktor’s mouth curve into a heart, bright and open. 

 

* * *

iii.

* * *

 

 **Viktor, 25  
** **St. Petersburg, October 2014**

 

Viktor stood in the middle of an abandoned rink, trying to reimagine what it felt like when Yuuri was there, two months ago for the summer vacation. A cry of frustration tore through his throat and he started skating laps around the rink at full speed.

 _It’s no use,_ he thought as his muscles burned with exhaustion, _how can I summon pure joy when we’re thousands of miles apart_.

He wasn’t being melodramatic. He was in the middle of a crisis. 

“ _Oy!_ My turn, now!"

Viktor didn’t bother turning towards the sound. It was Yuri Plisetsky, Yakov’s most promising protégé. He’d recently been hanging around Viktor more and Viktor—for the life of him—couldn’t figure out why.

“Did you know,” Viktor said, grinning widely at Yuri’s fury, “that growing boys shouldn’t be training as hard as you?”

“What a riot,” Yuri snorted, “I’m getting lectured on training too hard from _you_.” 

Viktor didn’t bother saying anything. His words had little effect on Yuri, maybe showing the boy his surgery scars would do the trick?

Yuri bit his lip and flipped his hoodie up, looking cross and uncomfortable. “What’s wrong with you?”

Was it truly so hard for Yuri to show genuine concern? Viktor let it go, answering, “I’m having issues with my long program—I don’t think it’s coming out right. It’s about the bloom of first love—true love—and the pure, unfettered joy of living so fully for the first time and—”

“—I can’t believe you think I care about your program.”

Viktor pouted. “I’m having real issues here, Yuri. I thought we were having a moment. Opening up. Connecting.”

“Oh my god,” Yuri muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets, “you’re not gonna win with this ‘pure love’ crap. Everyone wants you sad and broken and tragic, not Happy Viktor whose exhibition program is to a fucking pop song.”

“How dare you insult the artistic int—”

“Just retire already. Problems solved.”

“You just want that so you can win, two years from now.”

“No,” Yuri ground out, “two years from now I’m going to beat you. And Katsudon.”

He said it like an afterthought and Viktor tilted his head. “Katsudon? Yuuri? My Yuuri?”

Yuri rolled his eyes, “yes, Japanese Yuuri.”

A smile spread across Viktor’s face. He reached towards the rink barrier and pulled himself towards Yuri. “ _Yuu_ ri?” Viktor laughed, but Yuri stood resolute. “I didn’t know you admired him so much _Yu_ -ri.”

“ _I don’t admire him!”_ Yuri said it loudly and it seemed to echo in the rink. He glared at Viktor when he realized it. “He’s cool. I don’t know why he’s dating you.” Viktor didn’t either, to be honest. Yuri cleared his throat. “So your program is about him?”

“Yes! Of course!”

“Well you should work on it more, don’t embarrass Katsudon.”

Yuri looked him straight in the eye as he said it. He was serious. He was rarely serious about anything other than figure skating. “I didn’t know you cared for him so much.”

“We hung out a bit,” Yuri said, “when you were doing your celebrity thing. The press was wild all the time. Katsudon just wanted to skate—so I took pity and hung out with a bit. Even shut up some of your delusional fans. They were a nightmare.”

“I can’t control them,” Viktor said. He hadn’t realized they’d been specifically worse after Sochi. But they were a given with his clout. 

“Yes.” Yuri rolled his eyes. His face would probably freeze in that position if his angsty-prepubescence lasted any longer. “We all know that. Just don’t embarrass Katsudon with something less than your best.”

Yuri looked past Viktor to the ice and then back to Viktor. He looked thoughtful, but then he shook his head, turned around, and walked away.

 _Of course I’ll skate my best_ , Viktor thought. He would skate his best, Yuuri would skate his, and together they’d rewrite history around both their names.

~*~

“Well, when you’ve been in figure skating for over a decade, it’d be impossible to not try and recycle winning formulas. Should we really crucify Viktor Nikiforov?”

“I agree—of course I agree—but this was a remake of a Juniors program and… well… I think we’re all in agreement that the Juniors one was a bit more pleasing to watch. Look, this probably is expected. It’s early in the season, Viktor took off the entire summer—which he deserves to do, the fact he even came back after Sochi is _astounding,_ who can even understand the pressure Nikiforov is facing to top his Olympic program—this program will probably be much different, in say, a couple of months.” 

Viktor was a grown adult. He didn’t throw his laptop across his apartment after watching the commentary video, but he thought about it. Only the thought of his and Yuuri’s early-morning Skype session had kept him from it.

“It wasn’t a remake,” he murmured into Makkachin’s fur. “It was how I should have skated that theme the first time.” It was a weak excuse. Viktor had been painfully aware he was recycling an old idea—but he was certain if he did it better no one would care. But even before the music finished, Viktor could feel how lackluster the performance had been. 

 _I know,_ he had thought to a cheering crowd, fighting to keep his smile on his face, _it was boring._

He had won, of course, no other competing skater had the technical skill to beat him, but the victory felt unearned. The truth was he had woken up in a too-big Parisian hotel room, alone, and realized he couldn’t summon the exact scent of Yuuri’s skin. He had spent hours, then, trying to trace the same steps that he and Yuuri walked years ago. But then he got lost, turned, wanted to make a joke of it, and realized that Yuuri wasn’t there. The terror of it all clung to Viktor, hours later, when he had tried to skate a program on first love.

Yuuri was his inspiration for skating, but Viktor wasn’t going to see him for at least a month. 

Makkachin burrowed further into Viktor’s chest and he sighed. Was he so miserable his dog knew? He sighed again, louder, and then scanned the room to find the large grandfather clock. He had minutes before Yuuri would call him and he was reminded how much he hated his apartment. The design was minimalist, all sleek lines and monochrome colors. Yuuri had been scared to mess anything when he’d stayed in the summer, but then he left for school before the fear grew to outright loathing. 

“If Yuuri comes here,” Viktor said to a blinking poodle, a thought thrumming to life, “we can redo the apartment together.”

Makkachin yawned into his face. It didn’t deter Viktor entertaining fantasies of him and Yuuri arguing with each other in increasingly passionate Russian about paint swathes. 

Cheered, Viktor smiled extra brightly when his laptop rang to life minutes later.

“Yuuri!” he sang into his screen when the man in question appeared, bleary-eyed and wan. “Are you okay?” Viktor asked, frowning. 

Yuuri cracked a smile. “Yes,” he said, in Russian, “I’m tired. The airplane was late. The airport had no wifi so I could not finish a school project in time.”

Viktor tilted his head. “If you’re tired,” he said in slow Russian, “you don’t need to practice your Russian.”

Yuuri flushed and ran his fingers through uncombed hair. “My class has an oral exam tomorrow, but I’m here. I have to call my teacher and speak Russian with her.”

Viktor nodded and tried to keep his face neutral. Yuuri was a full-time university student and an Olympic-level athlete. Viktor had wondered how Yuuri could manage both—he wasn’t, the evidence of it stared him down through a computer screen—but bringing up his hellish schedule wouldn’t be good for Yuuri’s pre-competition jitters.

“What’s your chapter material?” Viktor asked instead. “I can help you for a bit.”

A small smile unfurled on Yuuri’s face and Viktor leaned back against his sofa.

“Vacations.”

Viktor perked up. This was the perfect segue to getting Yuuri to come to Russia. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do for your vacations?”

“I skate,” Yuuri said easily, “I spent the summer skating with my boyfriend”

“Amongst other things,” Viktor added. Yuuri looked at him with a dazed look before he finished a mental translation—a slight flush spread across his cheeks. “And the winter?”

Yuuri looked down and then back up at the screen, fidgeting for a moment. “I won’t have a winter vacation,” Yuuri said, eyes focused on him, “I have to take a class in Detroit, to graduate in time.” He said the last part in English, continuing in it, “I was supposed to take two summer courses to make up for my light—” _not light_ , Viktor thought “—course-load in the spring and fall… but then—”

Yuuri trailed off, but Viktor finished the sentence. “But then I visited you.” Yuuri looked apologetic—he probably knew what Viktor was hoping. “Don’t worry about it,” Viktor assured him, he licked his lips and tried to think of something happy to keep his smile real, but nothing came to mind. After a moment, Viktor finally said, “We’ll see each other at the Grand Prix Final, then.” 

“It’s in France this year.”

Viktor laughed. “Yes, we’re going back to the beginning, Yuu~ _ri_.” 

Yuuri didn’t stay on much longer. “She’ll be calling me in a minute,” Yuuri whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Viktor looked at the screen with hungry eyes, trying to recommit Yuuri to memory. “It’s fine,” he said, “we’ll talk soon. I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

 

 ****~*~

 

 **Yuuri and Viktor, 21 and 25  
** **Detroit, June-July 2014**

 

Viktor’s relationship with Yuuri was the best and most surprising thing in his life.

They texted and video-chatted frequently. Even in the empty spaces of his life, Viktor could easily recreate Yuuri. Yuuri, smiling so kindly at everyone; Yuuri, occasionally snarking with an unexpected casualness. It had been easy, after Hasetsu, to live without Yuuri. It was temporary. Only until the Olympics.

And then the Olympics came and went and his life had been quickly commandeered by the demands of Viktor Nikiforov, Figure Skating Legend. Between training and sponsor meetings and interviews he had scant minutes of solitude before his calls with Yuuri. But then the Olympic fever died, the media furor receded, and the initial solitude of his apartment collapsed into hours of loneliness.

“What do I do, Makkachin?” Viktor asked after a full minute of staring at his blank computer screen. His calls with Yuuri were never quite long enough.

Makkachin didn’t answer. She merely nudged at his hand until Viktor scratched her ears.

“Is that what I should do?” he teased, “stay at home, a servant to your every whim?”

She barked in agreement and Viktor laughed. “Yakov won’t like that, I should be practicing for next season right now.” 

Makkachin nipped at his hand. “Yes, yes,” Viktor said, scratching behind her ear, “I’ll probably win, even if I take a summer off.”

She barked again and Viktor knew what he would do.

~*~

Yuuri’s relationship with Viktor was the best and most surprising thing in his life. 

They texted and video-chatted frequently, Viktor had sent postcards to everyone he met in Hasetsu and Yuuri had bashfully sent along their love to “your boyfriend” (though Yuuri never told Viktor his parents knew him less as Figure Skating Legend and more as Their Son’s Boyfriend). 

During the Olympics, Yuuri had spent more time in Viktor’s suite than his own, the two of them wrapped around each other before the events. And then the sneaking glances towards each other—a smile, a wink—during the competition. Yuuri had felt like a teenager, or an approximation of one—sneaking around with the most popular boy in school, ducking into strange places to avoid an adult.

When Viktor won—was it even a question?—and he looked straight into the audience, Yuuri knew he was looking straight at him, heart caught in his smile. 

It didn’t matter that Yuuri was Japan’s loser, so long as he got to be Viktor’s secret.

And then Viktor had left for St. Petersburg and Yuuri to Detroit and that perfect moment passed. Yuuri had been consumed with class and training to return home for the summer—the second year in a row, Minako-sensei had complained. To be honest, Yuuri had no inclination to return to Hasetsu. 

He didn’t want to ruin Hasetsu, that tiny city by the sea, where time moved slow enough for Yuuri to still be Katsuki Yuuri instead of Katsuki Glass Heart.

And the truth was, when Yuuri thought of Hasetsu, he now thought of Viktor. Viktor, in sweatpants and complaining of the mild winter; Viktor, dappled in sunlight, and mangling a Japanese hello. And the promise they made to each other.

But they were figure skaters, they would meet each other on the ice and nowhere else until the ticking clocks of their careers ran its course.

It was dreadful. It was exhilarating. It was—.

“Surprise! I’m taking a summer vacation! With you!”

Of course Viktor would show up to Detroit. 

~*~

“Aww, Yuuri, I thought you’d be happier.” 

Viktor sat on one of the twin-sized beds in Yuuri’s dorm room. The room was sticky hot and Yuuri was drenched in sweat, on his knees and doubled over one of Viktor’s pieces of luggage. Viktor feigned innocence when Yuuri attacked the bag with a vengeance, unzipping it to reveal a rather beautiful sculpture of Erato, the Greek muse of love poetry. 

“I carried _that_ up here?” Yuuri hissed, glaring at him. He was rather cute when he challenged Viktor. Viktor had never been challenged before.

“You should be thanking me,” Viktor said, pointing at the bare walls of Yuuri’s room, “you don’t have any decorations, so I brought some along.”

Yuuri flushed and Viktor pretended Mari hadn’t shown him Yuuri’s extensive collection of posters. It had been so long since he had seen Yuuri’s adorable fluster in person.

“Aren’t you—” Viktor stood up and crossed the short space of the room to drape himself against Yuuri. “—happy to see me?”

Viktor nipped on Yuuri ear on the last word. Yuuri fell backwards into his chest and Viktor fell onto the floor, laughter bubbling from his throat.

“Of course,” Yuuri said. “I just don’t know why you couldn’t warn me.”

“Where would the surprise be?”

Viktor was absolutely certain Yuuri was rolling his eyes.

“I know you’re rolling your eyes, Katsuki,” Viktor chided, he began to pull away, but he felt a tug on the fabric of his sweats (which were a terrible idea; he’d really underestimated an American summer), stilling him. The sun filled the room with light, and if Viktor strained his ears, he could hear Makkachin’s happy barks drifting from next door where Yuuri’s dorm mates had captured her for the night. Yuuri was trapped in the V of his legs, staring up at the ceiling, and Viktor was suddenly struck by how wonderful time was when he slowed down and let himself be Viktor.

Viktor leaned forward, stretching himself until his eyes were level with Yuuri’s mouth. 

“Surprise,” Viktor whispered against Yuuri’s forehead.

“Surprise,” he whispered again against Yuuri’s mouth.

“Surprise,” he whispered again and again against the planes of Yuuri’s body, until Yuuri, tired of surprises, turned around and gave Viktor one of his own. 

~*~

The first few days, Yuuri had a nagging feeling that Viktor would turn up in front of his—theirs, however temporarily—building with a rented convertible, crowing about a cross-country trip Yuuri neither had the time, nor inclination, to afford. Yuuri was wrong. Instead, after days of lazing around in a makeshift king-sized bed, Viktor turned up to Celestino’s rink, sending the club into near hysterics at the thought that Viktor Nikiforov was going to train with them.

But then he opened his mouth and sent all the parents into near hysterics: “I’ll be instructing the four-week, beginning skating classes!”

Normally, Yuuri would have joined his club mates in bemoaning the sudden influx of helicopter parents convinced their child would become the next Viktor Nikiforov. Then he saw Viktor slowly pulling along a seven-year old girl who hadn’t yet mastered how to use her toe pick, but had just learnt how to hold her heart in her smile and…

And Viktor looked at him over the girl’s dark hair, warmth in his eyes, and Yuuri thought this was the best surprise he’d ever gotten.

~*~

Yuuri, Viktor realized, was popular. 

Of course he was popular. So deceptively humble, but with a wicked humor and those beautiful eyes. And his body. Viktor didn't know if he should burn Yuuri's terrible, terrible wardrobe, or keep on layering those ill-fitting clothes on him until no one knew what was under his oversized tops.

It was all on display now. Yuuri had drunk a full cup of the lemonade before someone had laughed, clapped Viktor on the back, and complimented him on Yuuri’s tolerance. “That stuff is _all_ alcohol,” she laughed, “it knocked out half the soccer team.”

Viktor had gasped and grabbed a can of beer for Yuuri, with every intention of giving it to him until he started stripping. Naked and beautiful, Yuuri had found dance partners easily. All of them had screamed Yuuri’s name with such familiarity that Viktor hung back, watching as Yuuri arranged a dance circle around him.

So much for “nobody”. 

Viktor smiled towards Yuuri, who was doing something with his feet and arms that Viktor didn't even know how to replicate. Yuuri who kept turning every so often to face Viktor, to laugh or gesture to join him, caught and returned the smile.  

Viktor smirked around the metal edge of the can.  

All his.

"Having fun?" Viktor asked when the song ended and Yuuri had stumbled towards him. 

He was affectionate and drunk, draping himself over Viktor and leaning in close to whisper against the shell of his ear. "Yes," Yuuri's voice was breathless. It drew shivers down Viktor's spine. "But—" Yuuri nipped on Viktor's ear and he released it before pressing a warm, wet mouth against the skin beneath it. "—are you?"

Viktor spilled his beer.

(It was PBR. It deserved to be on the floor.)

"Y-yes."

"Good." Yuuri pressed another kiss against Viktor's neck and he closed his eyes and moaned. "Look ahead of you. See the guy in the letterman?" It was hard to focus, but Viktor looked forward and saw the guy—young, maybe the same age as Yuuri—who looked away before their eyes met to talk with someone else wearing the same jacket. "He asked me to dance with him. Said I was cute."

_Because you are._

"He also told me I’d look great in his bed." 

_What?_

"What?"

"It's fine. He does it all the time. It's just something he does." _All the time?_ "But this is the first time I've had a boyfriend. Dance with me and make it good."

Viktor swept Yuuri up into a tango. It was probably the only time in his life he ignored the music (sugargum pop), but it sent the message just fine.

~*~

For all his insistence that he was only teaching children, Yuuri knew that Viktor was also coaching him. Through charisma or cash incentive (probably both), Viktor had convinced the university’s rink manager to lend them a key to the building, for use whenever it wasn’t booked. 

Viktor had babbled about finally getting to skate with only Yuuri, but Yuuri suspected ulterior motives when presented with the key. He was right, the first night they mostly spent in a tangle of limbs in the locker room and in the stands. The second night, though, Yuuri had barely run through the opening motions of a work in progress before he heard Viktor shouting from across the rink about his free leg. The third night, Viktor had critiqued Yuuri’s quad toe until, sweaty and exhausted, Yuuri pushed Viktor against the stands, putting his stamina to other uses.

“I think you’re coaching me,” Yuuri announced on the fourth night.

“Of course,” Viktor replied easily, “you’re much better than most think. You just need to perfect one quad and maybe fire your choreographer.”

“One, Mr. Can Land All the Quads, I think I’ll need more than one. And two, I use the club’s choreographer unless _you_ want to pay for the services of someone comparable—” Viktor opened his mouth to speak and Yuuri cut him off “—we both also know that I don’t have the technical skill to pull off one of your death traps.”

Viktor pouted. “They’re not death traps.”

“ _My_ hip ached during your Olympic program.” It did. It didn’t stop Viktor’s program from being the most beautiful thing to ever be seen on ice.

“Well,” Viktor sing-songed, skating a clean circle around Yuuri before wrapping his arm around his hip, “you’re the one with the better stamina.” 

“I think we need to return to the ‘you coaching me’ part,” Yuuri muttered, seeing interest sparking in Viktor’s eyes. “Isn’t this a bit inappropriate?”

Viktor’s other hand wrapped around the nape of Yuuri’s neck and he tugged himself closer to Yuuri. “It would be, I guess, if you called me coach while we—”

“No.”

“There are tons of coaches and skaters who—”

“You’re not actually my coach and we’re not those people.”

“But wouldn’t that be fun? Calling me coach at least?”

“Celestino would find out.”

~*~

“I want to cut my hair,” Viktor announced one day.

They were in the dormitory kitchen—while Yuuri’s “kitchen corner” (a hot plate, rice cooker, and assorted plate ware) was quaint, Viktor didn’t think it was sanitary and merely offered to buy all the summer students take-out if they vacated the shared cooking space a few times a week—and Yuuri was stirring a pot of the most delicious thing Viktor had smelt since lunch. Viktor made a mental note to send okaa-san a gift for all her cooking lessons. 

Yuuri startled at the announcement and nearly knocked the pot over. He caught it, of course, his reflexes were amazing. “Wha—? Why?”

Viktor shrugged. He pulled up Makkachin onto his lap and nuzzled into her fur, blanketing her in silver. “I’ve had long hair for so long,” he said, trying to retrace the series of impulses that led to the decision, “nearly a decade actually.”

“More,” Yuuri murmured. “Since you were thirteen.” 

Viktor hid his smirk in Makkachin’s fur—already Yuuri was blushing and sneaking glances over at him. It was adorable how he thought Viktor had no idea of the extent of his childhood crush. Viktor had absolutely zero inclination of correcting him. 

“Yes, I think you’re right,” Viktor teased. He leaned back against the chair and stretched a bit, shaking all of his loose hair as he did so. Yuuri’s eyes followed it like a man entranced; Viktor _would_ miss that, but… “I just feel different,” he admitted, “like something in me has changed and I want everyone to know it.”

Yuuri made a humming noise and crossed the kitchen. Makkachin jumped off Viktor’s lap and Yuuri dropped into it. “You really want this?” he asked, pulling Viktor’s hair over his shoulder.

Viktor pulled his hands through Yuuri’s hair, tugging his face down to look him directly in the eyes. He had such beautiful eyes. Whenever Viktor looked into them, he’d only see himself. He liked being the only thing this beautiful man with his beautiful eyes could see. “Will you really miss it?” 

Yuuri blinked. “I’ll adjust.”

Viktor smiled and leaned up to kiss Yuuri, long and slow. Minutes later, the soup started boiling and Yuuri pushed back with a groan. “If you want,” Viktor said against Yuuri’s throat, unwilling to let him go, “I can save all the hair. I can make it into a toy for you, a whip if you like that sort of thing.”

Yuuri half-fell, half-shoved himself off of Viktor. He very pointedly did not look at him as he finished the food.

~*~

**v-nikiforov**

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 **v-nikiforov** best summer with the love of my life. ready for a change, are you ready for the next level? #Detroit #JapansAce #YuuriKatsuki #LoveWins #NextLevel

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~*~

Weeks before his university classes would begin, Yuuri had finally succumbed to Viktor’s sudden demands he return with him to St. Petersburg until the semester began.

There had been an awful melancholy the day they allotted for cleaning and packing. They wouldn’t leave each other for three weeks, but Viktor was loathe to return to a world where he was anything but Katsuki Yuuri’s boyfriend. 

That fear hung in the air as he and Yuuri pulled apart the twin-sized dorm beds and repacked his luggage, giving away the pieces he bought in America. 

The entire endeavor took less than five hours.

A perfect summer: broken apart and rearranged in under five hours. 

“You should be a poet,” Yuuri deadpanned as they sat on the floor of his room, “you missed your calling.” 

Viktor picked up a piece of hair, then dropped it when he remembered his hair was too short to twirl. He instead reached forward and brushed Yuuri’s hair from his face.

“It’s not too late,” Viktor said, “I have an entire room full of gold medals. That’s more than enough. I could write a book.”

It sounded strange, living without skating, and Viktor let himself get lost in that thought. “After I retire,” Viktor said, not knowing what writer Viktor looked like, not liking not knowing. “I want to skate with you forever.”

Yuuri’s breath hitched and Viktor shifted forward, waiting. “I don’t think you’ve ever said that to me before.”

“Well,” Viktor admitted, “I do want to skate with you forever.” Yuuri’s eyes grew wide and Viktor added, “you’re my inspiration, you know? Since I met you, all my skating has been about you.”

 Yuuri didn’t say anything for the longest time. He just opened his mouth and closed it, clenching his jaw in-between with a distant look in his eyes.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri snapped out of his daze and looked down with his eyes squeezed shut before looking back to Viktor. “It’s just,” his voice was thick with emotion, “I skate for you, too.” 

“I’ll prove it to you. With a gold medal.”

 

~*~

 

 **Yuuri, 21  
** **Sochi, August 2014**

 

St. Petersburg was warm.

The makeup artists had left and the photographer had shrieked into his phone about a ruined jumpsuit before stomping outside to shriek at someone. Yuuri had a three-minute window where he could talk with Viktor. It was much too short so he blurted out the obvious: "St. Petersburg is warm."

Viktor laughed. "What did you think, sunshine? That it'd be ice cold and winter?”

"Yes, actually."

"Brrrr." Viktor exaggerated a shiver, running his hands up and down his sides for effect. Yuuri watched, entranced, as flecks of glitter fell to the ground. "So cold. Is this what you think about Russia?" 

Viktor was looking at him under a sweep of crystal-studded eyelashes. Yuuri shook his head quickly, trying to push through the daze of his head. Viktor laughed again and pulled Yuuri onto his lap. _Michel_ , Yuuri thought of the photographer, _will kill me for wrinkling Viktor's clothes._ "Enjoy the Russian summer," Viktor said, "you'll have it for a week before classes."

Yuuri dragged his fingers up the silk over Viktor’s chest, stopping at his throat. “It feels like I just got here.”

Viktor’s adam’s apple jumped under Yuuri’s fingers as he laughed, “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Yuuri pursed his lips, eyes glued to Viktor’s. Yuuri brought his hand up to brush against Viktor’s temples, his thumb smoothing out his eyebrows. They were so close, Yuuri could make out his reflection in Viktor’s eyes. The only thing Viktor saw. It was much easier in that tiny room in Detroit, where there was only room for Viktor and Yuuri.

"Thoughts, sunshine?" Viktor asked, pulling Yuuri's hand into his own. "You looked lost for a second."

"I'm thinking," Yuuri murmured, "about how much I love this."

The smile that broke across Viktor's face was devastating. Yuuri drank it in until the photographer returned and shrieked about the wrinkled silk.

Yuuri leapt outside and walked straight towards the studio. The set didn't look anything like the sets he'd filmed his commercials in. Then again, Yuuri had never been asked to do a photo-spread for Vogue.

"Skeptical, huh?" Yuuri heard in his periphery. He turned, startled, to a bottle of sparkling water. The woman holding it smiled weakly, "I heard Michel’s shrieks of terror and assumed you were the unwitting target. He’s only like this when he’s working under a tight deadline." 

Yuuri took a large gulp of water. "So you've been working with him a lot?" 

"Mh-hm," she responded, "but he’s a real sweetheart underneath." She glanced at Yuuri's horrified expression. "Under, underneath."

“He's good," Yuuri admitted. Viktor was so naturally beautiful, but he had looked especially ethereal in the couture, shimmering under a layer of painted-on glitter, every turn throwing off light."The photos will look amazing."

The woman laughed and Yuuri laughed too. "Ye-ep. Weeks of headaches over scouting locations, finding the right designers, make-up artists, etc. And then editing, that's a real nightmare too," she trailed off, frowning at the distance, before she realized that Yuuri was still there. "Sorry, I'm in for many sleepless nights, but the photos will be beautiful. It's the price of loving an artiste, correct?"

"Hm?"

"Oh, sorry." The woman held out her hand for Yuuri to shake. "I'm Alia, Michel’s wife."

Yuuri shook her hand, "I'm Yuuri."

Alia smiled, "yes, yes, we know, we heard about you in advance. Viktor's boyfriend, right?"

~*~

 **Phichit  
** Oh. So Celestino doesn’t have a thing with the choreographer. :( 

 **Yuuri  
** How are you invested already? You’ve only known them for a week

 **Phichit  
** I’ve never _actually_ met you and I’m already invested

Also, how can I not? Figure skating couples are the dream! I mean, look at you and Viktor! Summering in America, summering in Russia. You cosmopolitan, elite athletes!

 **Yuuri  
** I thought you traveled a lot? Aren’t your parents businesspeople? How even is your English so good?

**Phichit**

American rom-coms

And yes, I travel with my parents. But that’s different! It’s all so boring! Not like you two! You’re probably going to museums and parties

Or are you too busy doing other things?????

Yuuri? Yuuri? Too soon? Are we not at that level of roommate friendship yet??????

~*~

The shoot ran overlong (Michel had bitterly complained about the light not being correct) as Yuuri tried to puzzle out how to respond to Phichit. 

20:37, Yuuri read off his phone. It was lunch time in America now, Phichit was probably talking with the dozens of people he already made friends with. Phichit probably also didn’t want to hear about how boring the photoshoot was. Yuuri ex-ed out of the chat, feeling the inexplicable urge to get out and shake off the ennui already settled bone-deep.

Yuuri gestured to Viktor, who was twisted in a tangle of silks and crystals. “I’m going,” Yuuri mouthed from behind the photographer and a blowing fan. Viktor turned towards the sound of Yuuri’s voice, and pouted for a split-second before he nodded.

“I’ll be at the rink!” Yuuri called out before breaking into a sprint towards Yakov’s club.

For once, the throngs of fans outside the rink were gone and Yuuri didn't have to brave a crowd just to enter. Yuuri was already teetering on his skates before he noticed that the rink—though it was dark outside—was occupied by a figure skater powering through what looked to be a long program. The kid skated like every move was an attack and Yuuri could see the exact second he tensed, picked up speed, and then jumped into a—.

Yuuri's mouth fell open. 

Four revolutions. Four complete revolutions. 

What the hell kind of skaters were at Yakov's rink? Viktor. That redheaded women's skater who took home a Sochi gold. And now a kid who could land a quad sal? If Yuuri already didn't feel inadequate, then he did now. But—Yuuri did a quick scan of the—skater. He was breathing harshly and something about his hip alignment seemed off as he skated away. 

"You shouldn't be landing quads until you're done growing," Yuuri called out to the ice. 

The kid ground to a halt and he threw a venomous look in Yuuri's direction. It was Yuri Plisetsky, who Yuuri had briefly met when Viktor brought him by the rink to meet everyone. "You have something to say to me?!" Yuri yelled out as he skated towards Yuuri. "Who even are you to—?"

He stopped in front of Yuuri and did a once-over, sneering. "Oh, you," he smirked and did what Yuuri assumed was an imitation of Viktor's hair flip, except his hair was several centimeters too short for the move to look like anything but a neck strain. "I don't need advice from anyone, especially 7th place losers." 

Yuuri blinked. Normally, reminders of his disastrous showing at the Sochi Olympics would sting, but he couldn't even fake offense. The kid was very obviously placing his weight on the right side of his body. "I'm just saying," Yuuri said, "you're already good, there's no need to injure yourself when you can beat the competition without a quad."

Yuri scoffed, but there was a hint of pleasure in the upturn of his mouth. He turned around suddenly and skated away. _Did I pass some kind of test?_ Yuuri thought. When Yuri made no move to call back to him, Yuuri took his guards off and stepped onto the ice.

Yuuri absently lapped the rink, sketching figure eights into the scratched-up ice. In his periphery, he could hear the blond boy launch himself through the air and land with a heavy thud. _Not as good as Viktor does it_ , _but_ —

"What are you looking at?" Yuri demanded, he skated close enough that Yuuri could see his mouth curve into a manic smile, "oh yeah, just wondering what a real quad sal looks like, instead of your pathetic attempts?"

Yuuri frowned. “You’ve seen me skate?”

The boy froze and Yuuri remembered he knew about Yuuri's Olympic standing. "You watched me at the Olympics, didn't you?"

"Of course," Yuri said, but his scoff couldn't mask his inexplicable embarrassment, "I wanted to see the lesser Yuri compete. I shouldn't have expected much, no one remembered you existed until Ichiru fell.”

Yuuri winced, a vision of Ichiru limping off the ice after a practice flittering through his mind. It had been the catalyst for Yuuri's sudden thrust into the Olympic spotlight and the harbinger for Viktor's euphoric free skate. Viktor, only Yuuri knew, had taken his aging competitor's interrupted comeback the worst. Maybe worse than Ichiru, who had sent Yuuri a picture of him in a hospital bed, surrounded by his daughter and wife, smiling. Viktor, after all, had to fight for a gold medal against the memory of a young Hisakawa Ichiru, instead of the aging man himself. 

Then Viktor delivered and Yuuri popped a sal. Yuuri was happy for Viktor, truly. Someone had to make the best out of a terrible situation.

"What the hell?" the other boy hissed, "are you even listening to me?"

 _No,_ Yuuri thought.

"Whatever," Yuri muttered. He looked away and Yuuri knew he did something wrong.

"No," Yuuri blurted out, "I wasn't. I'm sorry, I was thinking about the Olympics. You're right, I did terribly. If I had your quad sal I would have been better."

That seemed to placate the boy, who blushed before realizing he was blushing and smirked instead. "Yes, you would have," he said.

"But you shouldn't keep practicing quads," Yuuri added.

"Tccch, I'll stop doing my quads when you start landing yours correctly."

"Me?" Yuri threw Yuuri a disgusted look, _yes you_. "Why me?"

"It's pathetic, if you're going to have my name then you're going to have to be better than Viktor. Or am I wrong?" Yuri's expression grew dark. "Have you given up on skating already? Content to just be Viktor Nikiforov's no-name boyfriend?” 

 

* * *

iv.

* * *

 

 **Yuuri, 22  
** **Detroit, January 2015**

Phichit was humming a song as he pulled the door of their room open. Yuuri had anticipated his entrance seconds before, hearing a faint shuffle from the hallway. _Swish, swish, swoosh._ Laughter. Repeat. Yuuri had sped up his shoe-tying when he realized the shuffling was following the beat of a song Phichit had taken to humming in the mornings.

"I don't feel like going out,” Yuuri said the second the door pulled open.

"Oh?" Phichit drew out the syllable. Yuuri kept his gaze fixed to his boots. "So I'm supposed to let beat yourself up via skating?"

Yuuri didn't answer. 

"Please Yuuri. You're obviously carrying skates in that bag. Which is terrible. Everyone here is celebrating being young and alive and free before classes start and you're going to an abandoned ice rink?"

“My free skate is a mess—” because he was choreographing a new one in secret “—Four Continents is in weeks.”

Phichit dropped down onto a bed—Yuuri's bed, Yuuri was certain, Phichit's was buried under piles of textbooks and clothes—with a loud thump. He had a way of living loudly, of drawing attention to himself. Sometimes, it reminded Yuuri of Viktor. 

"You do. But you're at the rink so often I'd say you're sleeping there." Phichit paused. "But you can't, since we both know you spend class time doing that."

"My sleep schedule has always been off," Yuuri said. It took him a full-year to even adjust his alarms to Detroit time. He had blamed homesickness when Celestino had caught the clock settings on his phone after the third late practice. It worked. Until Celestino decided, two years into their relationship, to start learning Japanese and locating everything Japanese in Detroit. Yuuri was touched, but Celestino probably hoped that it would turn Yuuri into a star. It didn’t.

"Not before it wasn't." Phichit hopped off the bed and moved towards Yuuri. His hand grazed across Yuuri's shoulder—a question—and Yuuri melted into it, letting himself be turned. "Is this about Paris?”

“No—"

"Because, one, it's not your fault that no one seems to like Happy, Fun-Times Viktor Nikiforov. And two, nearly everyone who's blaming you for something Viktor does is either obscenely jealous you're living the life they want or low-key racist." Phichit paused, taking a breath and then saying with such ferocity, “Considering they’re shipping him with Christophe and can’t find the words to explain _why_ Christophe is objectively better than you—and he’s not—most likely both.”

Yuuri blinked, startled. “I think they call themselves Team Christophe.”

Phichit’s hand fell from Yuuri’s shoulder. “That’s not a ship name,” he said, “because they’re not clever enough to even think of one. And you shouldn’t look at what they’re saying.”

Phichit was looking at him and Yuuri fought with himself to hold the gaze. “I don’t look at their stuff,” Yuuri said, but there was no heat in his words. Christophe and Viktor had looked good together in Paris. Christophe had skated _better_ and there was something charged in the air as the years-long friends skated against each other. He had come close to beating Viktor. 

(Five points off. Yuuri was responsible for Viktor’s low score, he was certain of it. He had distracted Viktor the night before, talking about nothing, keeping him up—)

Christophe and Viktor made sense as a couple. Yuuri looked up at the ceiling, desperate to not think about Christophe again, “I haven't been—" _just_ "—beating myself up at the rink. I've been working on something."

Phichit didn't even blink, he just stayed still and silent. The sounds of the dormitory were filtering through the walls. The suite next door was pregaming and the football team players across from them were playing a video-game. Phichit should've been there, in the crowd, living loudly in ways that Yuuri could never imagine for himself. 

But he was here. On another Friday. Trying to talk Yuuri off the metaphoric ledge.

Yuuri couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that skating felt more like a surrender than it did control.

(That was a lie.

His skating never felt like death until he pulled up to distant applause in Ottawa. He had needed a fourth place finish to go to Paris, to see Viktor, to be Viktor and Yuuri. But he had known, even as he skated off the ice, that it wasn't enough.)

"I've been working on it since December. Messing around more like. But this musician came to the rink, caught me practicing, and told me she could rearrange a song for it. I’m still waiting for the music, though, and it still needs more—”

"And you're going to the rink to work on it now?" Yuuri nodded and Phichit threw himself at the closet. Yuuri watched with growing eyes as he started throwing clothes everywhere. 

"Yes, but you don't need to—"

"Nonsense," Phichit emerged, dressed in sweats, a duffel bag dangling from his shoulder. "Of course I'm going."

“What?” Yuuri scrambled to grab for Phichit’s bag, “you’ve been talking about this weekend since you got back! You should be partying! Everyone’s probably waiting for you!”

“Yuuri, it’s only 8pm! No one’s partying! They’re all wasting away their youth because everyone’s too cool to start early!”

"Y-you don't need to waste your youth!"

"How about this? I go with you to the rink, and you come out with me tomorrow! Or tonight! Later!” Phichit patted his duffel, which Yuuri realized looked too bulky for just skates. “Don’t worry, I have outfits for both of us!”

~*~

“At last. Months of nagging and you finally take my advice.”

There was a split-second lag between the sound emerging from the speakers and the pixels of Viktor’s face reforming into a grin. It was 1 am on a weekday in a university dormitory with shit wifi. Yuuri was dooming himself to these split-second lags, but this was the only time that suited both of their schedules this semester.

“Phichit’s advice,” Yuuri lied. No need to distract Viktor with how terrible he felt watching Viktor’s defending his title on a T.V. screen. “He’s been nagging me about it every day and he lives here now, so he won out.”

A pause. A whisper of sound that was Viktor breathing or Viktor sighing or Viktor anything—really, the lag was terrible—and then, “so the roommate situation is going well?”

Yuuri nodded. “Really well. We really click and we’re on nearly the same schedule. It’s like I’m in one of those movies where everyone has perfect roommates.”

“That’s great,” Viktor said, “But I’m surprised Celestino allowed you to change your long program.”

“You were right—the program I had for the Grand Prix isn’t good for me—um. The program I’m working on now is something I’ve pieced together and… it’s good. It’s really good.”

_I think I can win with it._

Yuuri didn’t say that part aloud to anyone. 

“I knew you had it in you.” Viktor was smiling now. “It must really be something that you showed it to Celestino and he went along with it. I thought you were scared of him?”

“I’m not scared of him,” Yuuri said. “He just has strong opinions. And I didn’t really show it to him.”

“Oh?”

Yuuri blushed. “I showed the program to Phichit and he talked about it to Celestino.” 

Talked was a word—Phichit had exclaimed and awed and then said that the clip he caught on his phone would be perfect for Instagram. Unaware he was being filmed, Yuuri crashed into the boundary trying to grab Phichit’s phone. Phichit apologized and then compromised—he wouldn’t share it online, he would just share it with Celestino. 

In short: Yuuri had been blackmailed.

“Celestino loved it. He’s had me working with Angelica on it all the time.”

Viktor tilted his head, his image flickered, froze.

“You showed it to Phichit first?”

 “It’d be hard not to. Phichit's always around.” Yuuri's laugh was a breathless affair—he'd practiced it specifically for Viktor, who had of late been Skyping Yuuri with a type of desperation. Yuuri could barely handle his own problems and they already ate up enough of Phichit’s time; he wouldn't do the same to Viktor. 

“Hm." Viktor brought a finger to his mouth and tapped the line against his lips once. His mouth was a curve around it. "So cruel, Yuuri, to flaunt the other men in your heart so casually."

The image didn't freeze but Viktor was still. He looked like a poster. All he had to do was toss his hair and wink and he would look exactly like he did in an interview.

"Don't do that."

"Do what? Joke?" 

"You're not joking."

Viktor laughed. It was short and ugly and forced. Distance—the speakers of his computer, really—made it worse. "Yuuri, we've been talking for not even fifteen minutes and I can't even get to my day without you bringing up Phichit more times than I can count."

Yuuri blinked. 

At once, he was hit by a wave of emotion, confusion, doubt, indignation. 

"You asked me about my skating, Phichit's been the one helping me with it, of course he's going to come up in conversation."

Viktor didn't roll his eyes. He had too much practice putting on fake smiles and laughs for something as human as an eye-roll. But his voice was forceful when he spoke. "This isn't the first time, you're always talking about Phichit."

"We live together."

Viktor pressed on. "And before? Summer? God, you didn't even _meet_ Phichit and I'd always see you ducking out to go text him." 

Yuuri was a well of emotion, but the base urge to protect his best friend—his only friend in the entirety of the American landmass—won out. "Because I was bored of just standing around being your boyfriend, and because sometimes all of it is hard to put up with."

"Hard to put up with? _You_ disappear for days on end. I get it. You're busy—skating and schoolwork. But then I go on Instagram and there you are, with Phichit, all smiles." 

"Because I'm happy when I'm with him.”

 

~*~

 

 **Viktor, 24  
** **Hasetsu, October 2013**

 

“I don’t understand,” Viktor complained, fanning himself with a stray brochure, “how this is _New Year’s_.”

Yuuri lifted a shoulder and continued wrapping a rubber band around a pair of chopsticks. “This is cold, actually.” Yuuri smiled and passed the pair of chopsticks over to him. Viktor sat up and grabbed for them, pulling apart the ends of the sticks and grinning when they snapped back into place. From across a table of beautifully arranged food, Yuuri tilted his head up at him. 

“What?” Viktor asked. With the band holding the ends of the sticks secure, Viktor could finally get them to pick up food.

“You look just like the triplets.”

Viktor had met Yuuri’s childhood friends and their three daughters the day before, when seemingly all of Hasetsu breezed in and out of the springs to catch a glimpse at him. The girls were adorable and laved attention over Yuuri. Viktor had approved. 

“Is that an insult, Katsuki?” Viktor picked up a piece of meat and chewed. It was delicious, Viktor made sure to smack his lips extra loudly. Sadly, Yuuri didn’t seem interested in his mouth. “Because I see greatness in those girls.” Viktor chewed at the ends of his chopsticks, Yuuri gulped and Viktor grinned around the wood. 

“They’re children,” Yuuri said, “you look just like a child.”

That wasn’t the image Viktor wanted to project, but Yuuri was so perplexed that Viktor abandoned all thought of moving from the banquet room to Yuuri’s bedroom that night. “I’m quite childish,” Viktor replied, looking down at the different plates of food, “Yakov reminds me of it everyday.”

He heard Yuuri laugh from across the spread and Viktor dropped a vegetable slice at the sound of it. “I just never expected it.” Yuuri’s voice was shy. “You always seemed so serious.”

Viktor gave up on propriety then. He rested his elbow on the table and dropped his chin in his hand, squinting at Yuuri for a moment. “Of course I’m serious,” he drawled, waving his chopsticks in the air, “but I can be childish, too.” 

Yuuri startled, eyes round and huge. “Oh,” he said, “it’s just surprising.”

It was surprising to Viktor, too, but he felt like he was retrieving castaway pieces of himself the more he was around Yuuri.

Yuuri blushed across from him, dropping his gaze suddenly to his lap, and Viktor realized that he had stared a second too long. Viktor would tell Yuuri about his self-revelation another time then. He shouldn’t move too quickly with Yuuri—regardless of how quickly his heart beat around him, how quickly time flew past—he wanted this, whatever it was, to be slow and timeless. 

Viktor cleared his throat and Yuuri snapped back up. _Oh,_ he realized belatedly, _I should have probably thought of something to say first_. But he wanted so badly to look at Yuuri’s eyes again.

“What’s your favorite?” Viktor gestured at the food.

Yuuri relaxed, shook his head and explained, “It’s not here.” 

“Hm?”

“It’s katsudon, uh, fried pork bowl.”

“And your mother wouldn’t make it for you?” 

The happy woman with the same close-eyed smile as her son didn’t seem like the type of person who would deny her youngest his favorite food.

“Uh… no.” Yuuri colored and absently picked up a vegetable only to put it down again. “We have a rule that I only eat it when I win a competition.”

Viktor used his chopsticks to stab at the air, frowning. “But you’ve been gone for a while. Isn’t there a katsudon deficit?”

Yuuri blinked at him before his gaze flickered to his lap. Viktor should have talked more about the weather, it was a safe, easy topic. 

“Sometimes I cheat,” Yuuri said after a long moment, his eyes focused on his lap, “when I’d get a new personal best, Celestino would always treat me to food… and he’s recently gotten into this Japanese kick, so he asked me what I would eat if I were in Japan. That and when I do well on an exam, I can sometimes get all the ingredients and equipment together and I make it for myself in the dorm kitchens.”

Viktor smiled. “You’re probably an amazing cook.”

“Nah,” Yuuri peeked at him under his bangs and smiled back, slow and soft, “it never tastes exactly how my mother makes it.”

Yuuri’s gaze drifted over the food again, to Viktor. Melancholia seemed to cling to him. All that food in front of him, yet Yuuri was smiling so softly with the memory of longing. Memory was funny, it bent time, looping it together so that the past was future and present all at once. Viktor let the conversation drift because he was drifting too, in the memory of Yuuri.

“Why did you want to come here?” Yuuri asked, minutes later.

“You invited me, remember?” 

Viktor said it lightly. Yuuri had been so open and bright after a bottle of wine. He had babbled incoherently about a hot springs in Japan and Viktor was charmed. 

“I’ll show you Hasetsu,” Yuuri had said when Viktor looped an arm around him, the two of them stumbling over the cobblestone streets, trying to chase whatever light remained in Paris. And then Yuuri had reached up and sighed into Viktor’s throat, “I want to take you home.”

Yuuri had gone silent, and Viktor’s heart beat for a long, long time.

“Did you change your mind already?” Viktor had asked.

“No.” Yuuri stepped back. “I’m going to take your picture. So I never forget you or all this.”

Yuuri had worn the softest smile as his eyes memorized the shape of Viktor.

Viktor tried to do the same, but then—

 _Screw it,_ Viktor had thought, leaning forward and meeting Yuuri’s mouth. He snapped a photo after. Viktor always forgot things, he was certain he wouldn’t forget Yuuri, but he wanted to be sure.

He kept the photo in his wallet. He never thought he could be the type of person who would keep photos in his wallet and he never thought he could fly around the world on a whim.

 _You’ve made a romantic out of me,_ Viktor had thought, relishing the surprise that bloomed across Yuuri’s face—sudden and fierce and happy—when Viktor had found him in Tokyo. “Take me to Hasetsu. We’re so close now!” 

“I did ask you here,” Yuuri said, his voice tethering Viktor back to the present.

 _Maybe this isn’t too fast,_ Viktor thought, looking at Yuuri. Maybe Viktor shouldn’t keep the conversations easy and safe. He held Yuuri’s gaze and put his chopsticks down.

“If I didn’t come here,” Viktor said slowly, “we wouldn’t have seen each other until the Olympics. And after that, we’d next meet when? In fall, _if_ we’re placed in the same Grand Prix events? I can wait for that, I can, but I don’t want whatever this is to be something that only exists on the ice.” 

Viktor laid his hand down on the table halfway to where Yuuri was. 

“This is going to be hard,” Yuuri said. His gaze skittered between Viktor’s palm and Viktor’s face, until finally, tentatively, he reached forward. “But I want this, too.”

 

* * *

v.

* * *

 

 

 **Yuuri, 22  
** **Moscow, November 2015**

 

The cheers of the crowd were deafening when Yuuri held up the Rostelecom Cup gold medal. He dared not kiss it and he dared not look further into the dark crowd. He already had enough reminders of Viktor in his life, he wasn’t foolish enough to assume he could stand on Russian ice and somehow escape that specter.

“Keep looking forward, Yuuri,” Christophe murmured from a tier below. “You deserve this.”

But Yuuri kept his gaze forward, silent because he couldn’t bear to speak with Christophe. He had stared at Christophe days before, as he arrived in the stadium, and tried to force himself to say the words—“How is Viktor?”, “Can you make Viktor happy?”, “You two look great together.” Christophe was so much better than Yuuri, helping him where he could.

_You deserve this._

Christophe’s words rang in Yuuri’s head, later. The lights were on, the crowds gone, and Yuuri was left behind. Already the stadium workers were breaking apart the podiums. Yuuri sighed and held up his medal and then put it back down, let it hang around his neck. 

 _Don't you dare let this drag you down_ , a fierce voice filtered through Yuuri's head, _you deserve this, more than anyone else_.

"But do I?" Yuuri held up the medal, squinting at the gold. His first gold medal. His first step to the Grand Prix Final. Yuuri shuddered a breath. "Viktor isn't here," he said to the medal, "but he will be in Sochi."

Could Yuuri compete against him? Could this Yuuri, broken and halved and better, go up against Viktor? Could he beat Viktor? 

Thoughtlessly, Yuuri dug through the pocket of his team jacket, pulling out his phone. He dialed Viktor's number. _Maybe he changed his number?_ Yuuri thought at the precise moment he pressed 'Call'. 

"Yuuri," Viktor breathed into the phone two rings later. 

It was too late to hang up, but Yuuri didn't know why he even called Viktor. "How are you?"

"You still remember your Russian?" Viktor asked. "I thought you would have forgotten by now."

Yuuri blushed. "It seemed like a waste to let it go. And my professor would have killed me if I dropped it.”

There was silence, so Yuuri added. "I'm here, you know. In Russia."

"I know," Viktor replied. "Rostelecom Cup?" 

"Yes."

Yuuri was silent. instead He tried to focus, tried to see if he could hear Viktor's breaths through the phone. He couldn't. There was too much noise going on around him.

"Yuuri," Viktor said when the silence grew too long. "Why are you calling me?"

Yuuri inhaled, but then reached down to grab at the ribbon of his medal. "I watched you perform in Milwaukee."

"On television?"

Yuuri looked down. It was foolish, Viktor couldn't see him, he wouldn't know that Yuuri had begged Kat for her car. How she had called Phichit and they had split the six hour drive between them because Yuuri didn’t have a driver’s license. How Phichit had crowed about a road trip and spent the way there joking about making pit stops to the World’s Largest Cheese Factory or the World’s Biggest Ball of String and how—finally—Kat cut through his ramblings to ask Yuuri what he would do when he saw Viktor. Yuuri had no answer then. And he had no words when he saw Viktor perform.

"It's amazing," he had whispered to Kat, “he’s always surprising me.”

Phichit had hummed, slouching into his seat before leaning in close to whisper to Yuuri. “But something is different—Viktor does tragic well… but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything this…”

 _Sad_ , Yuuri thought, silent. 

Kat had said nothing about Viktor's skating, noting, “The song is off, too. There are places where there should be a second melody, that’s why it’s so melancholic. Maybe it was originally a duet?” 

She let that sink in before Yuuri ducked out of the stadium and back to her car. The music she wrote for his free program wasn't a duet. If their skating was a conversation then Yuuri wasn't keeping up. He'd have to use words.

“Yuuri?”

"Yes," Yuuri said, remembering where he was. “I saw you on television."

"Ah."

"Did you watch me skate today?"

Viktor sighed, "Of course. How could I not? You were magnificent. I'm happy you have your gold medal." 

Yuuri unclenched his fist. "I won it for you," he admitted, "I thought of you as I skated. It's impossible for me not to. You're... you're everything."

"You broke up with me."

"I didn't—" Yuuri stopped himself from finishing the sentence. I didn't mean to, it was on the tip of his tongue, but... but Yuuri still skated that free program, that ode to his unhappiness and misery. He hadn’t thought of how Viktor would take it, to see it before he heard it… but Yuuri wanted to be selfish and he skated it. He wanted to be selfless and set Viktor free from him. Yuuri wanted to be many things and sometimes they didn’t match up. Most of all, he wanted to be Viktor and Yuuri—but he couldn’t be Viktor’s pleasant surprise all the time. So he let himself be dark and sad. It was selfish.

He should have used his words instead of his skating. Yuuri knew better now: he knew the value of his words—he wasn't going to say something untrue. 

“I think you think—you and everyone else, probably—that I have this great life. That I have all these close friends and family members and that I’m happy all the time and that I could live without you.” Tears started to gather in Yuuri’s eyes. “But they don’t matter. Not really. I feel alone all the time. Sometimes I can’t even get out of bed because everything feels too heavy. And being with you was the first time I didn’t feel like that. It was the first time I wanted to be better… and then you were gone and Phichit was here and… I didn’t want my problems to be the thing holding you back.”

Viktor's voice sounded hoarse. "Why are you telling me this now?" 

"Because I've been trying to sort this out for months and… I’m not fixed, but I'm still selfish enough to want you."

Viktor's exhale was a burst of sound that slid through the phone. "Wanting me," Viktor said, slow and easy, "isn't selfish."

"It is," Yuuri said, remembering Viktor in Paris, long-haired and bright-eyed, gesturing towards the Seine and the Eiffel Tower, glittering so brightly. Who cared that the night sky was vast and dark, when all the stars were on the ground? "You don't know, but it is."

There was a hitch of breath, but Yuuri needed to do this face to face. Preferably in an area where there wasn't a man on a zamboni gesturing at Yuuri to get off the ice. 

"Don't say anything," Yuuri said, "just think about us and who we are together. I won't contact you, I won't bother you till Sochi. I want to fix us.” 

"Okay."

 

~*~

 

 **Viktor, 22  
** **Detroit, March 2011**

 

There was something strangely tragic about wresting gold out of Ichiru’s hands. Viktor had wiled away years in training. Everyone said it had been about pushing the limits of the human body, but Viktor knew philosophy wasn’t the reason the Russian Skating Federation would send over representatives ever so often to talk with Yakov.

He’d done his job. Russia finally had its gold medal. 

But there was something unreadable in Ichiru’s eyes when he looked into the crowd. There was a flame there—youth, vitality—and Viktor recognized it in the exact moment he’d realized that Ichiru Hisakawa’s hair looked thin. 

 _How terrible,_ Viktor had thought, _to have young eyes on an old face._

“You seem lost, Vitya,” Lilia said later when they walked into the stadium’s lobby.

Viktor nodded. As they moved, he absently sifted through the crowd, trying to search for a mop of black hair. Christophe smiled hello and Viktor waved back, remembering to call him for dinner later. 

“I think,” Viktor said, realizing how long Lilia stayed silent, “that Ichiru will retire after this season.”

“Oh, Vitya, beauty is a wondrous force, but it is fleeting. Don’t dwell on it, Ichiru had a beautiful career, he will be remembered.”

She was speaking as if he were dead, as if Viktor had delivered judgement on Ichiru—retirement. Death, really. His hand strayed to his chest and his fingers brushed against the cold medal placed there minutes before. Viktor had decided Ichiru’s fate, in the split-second he landed his flip and willed his body upright. 

“What will he do if he retires?” Viktor asked to fill the silence. He had returned to scanning the crowd and imagining what he would say to Ichiru. Would it be callous to apologize? To ask for advice? The answer was probably yes, but Viktor could push pass that.

“Coach? Go to university?” Viktor was barely listening to her, there was a mop of black hair in his peripheral vision. “Appear on reality—?”

Viktor had already ground to a halt mid-sentence, whipping around quickly to catch sight of—

A fan.

“Do you want a photo?” Viktor asked. He hoped he kept the disappointment off of it. It would be terrible to explain to someone he thought they were former World Champion and Good As Dead Legend, Ichiru Hisakawa on the basis of looking Japanese. The teenager remained wide-eyed. “Sure!” 

Viktor smiled as he gently plucked the boy’s phone from his hands. The boy looked shellshocked, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening. So Viktor made sure to crowd in closer, to drape an arm over his shoulder, to let his hair fall against the boy’s dark hair. 

“Smile!”

The shutter clicked shut and Viktor moved away. He glanced at the photo. The boy’s face was beet-red. “It’s cute!” Viktor said honestly when he handed the phone back. The teenager still seemed tongue-tied. Viktor felt bad he bothered someone for no better reason than _I think you’re Japanese and that you were this specific Japanese person._

“What’s your name?” 

The boy gulped. The bob of his Adam’s apple was prominent and Viktor found himself staring at the line of his throat a second too-long. “Yuuri. Katsuki Yuuri.” His name was a stammer of syllables and that split-second of interest fizzled away. _Too young,_ Viktor’s mind chirped, _but at least his name_ sounds _Japanese._

“Well,” Viktor said, “here’s hoping we meet again.”

“I’ll skate on the same ice as you one day!” The boy screamed from behind him.

Viktor turned back, looking at the too-young boy with fond eyes. “Yes, one day soon.”

Lilia was radiating impatience when he returned to her. “Ichiru is over there,” she used her chin to point at a far corner where a mass of people were huddled around Ichiru Hisakawa. Viktor was too far to make out his facial expressions, but the press of people looked too intimate for an interruption. 

“Another time, then,” Viktor murmured.

As they walked to the exit, Viktor turned enough to catch the shine off of Ichiru’s medal. It was the same color as Viktor’s hair, and Viktor touched his own hair instinctively, feeling naked when Ichiru’s gaze met his. It was a heartbeat of a moment filled with a thousand words before Ichiru angled his jaw down in acknowledgement.

Viktor smiled, but inside he was shuddering.

 _Not for me, not now, not ever,_ Viktor decided as he held open the door for Lilia, _I have all the silver I’ll ever need in my hair_.

He followed her out, leaving his future behind him.

 

 

* * *

coda: back to you

* * *

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov, aged 27, three-time Olympic Champion, five time Grand Prix gold medalist, and four-time World Champion was not where he should have been.

It was 20:16.

He was set to perform _Stammi vicino_ at 21:00.

Tokyo was a five hour train ride away, Viktor Nikiforov’s tenure as World Champion ended today.

 _Good riddance,_ Viktor thought, smoothing over his sweater. Not for the first time that day, he wondered if he should have shown up in his costume. But Yuuri got startlingly good at sussing out when Viktor was doing something solely for aesthetic. And Viktor wanted to look closer to who he was. Who he was wore comfortable clothing.

Katsuki Yuuri, aged 23, one-time Olympian, and one-time World Figure Skating silver medalist, was sketching a figure eight into the ice. His childhood best friend, Nishigori Yuuko had left the rink for dinner, but Yuuri couldn’t bear to watch his ex-lover perform an incomplete program—one that only two people in the world fully understood was half of a whole.

So he skated the only complete thing he knew.

“Wow, amazing!”

Yuuri turned at Viktor’s voice and he nearly tripped from the shock of seeing Viktor Nikiforov in sweats and a sweater, smiling. In Hasetsu.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to visit!”

Yuuri shook his head, but Viktor was still there, a blur of silver and grey. And Yuuri was struck, because Viktor was supposed to be in his bright pink costume, in Tokyo, winning a fifth gold medal. 

“Shouldn’t you be competing?”

“Did you know…” Here, Viktor finally acquiesced, finally draped himself over the barrier, pulling himself centimeters closer to Yuuri. “That I originally commissioned _Stammi vicino_ as a duet?”

Yuuri glided closer. “Yes.”

Viktor let a fond smile unfurl. He had a speech prepared that began with how his life was a duet waiting to be heard and—really—little else past that. His first great venture as a writer. He’d have to think of something else.

“Well, I couldn’t skate something so incomplete for an audience, could I? My title would be fraudulent!”

Yuuri sighed. It was a time for words instead of figure skating metaphors he was half-certain weren’t actually metaphors. “Why are you here?”

Viktor looked at Yuuri for a long moment and then he summoned up the little courage he had. “I want to be with you. More than anything else. I thought about it and… it’s really that simple. My life has always been in the margins of my figure skating, that ends today, with you.”

“That’s it?” Yuuri asked. “It’s that easy?” 

“Yes.”

Yuuri’s glided along the ice as he pulled closer and reached for Viktor’s hand.

“I’m a mess.” It slipped from Yuuri’s mouth. He had practiced saying it, before, months ago, when he had rehearsed what he would say to Viktor. He hadn’t thought he would be a mess in Sochi. What he was and what he wanted to be sometimes didn’t add up. “And I’m good at pretending to be happy. But if you’re around me all the time, you’re going to see it and—”

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to Phichit.” Yuuri moved to say something, but Viktor added, “Nothing could scare me off. I’m in too deep, Yuuri, I’m going to love you forever.”

Tears welled in Yuuri’s eyes. “That’s a long time.” He laughed and it shook the tears free. “You’ll probably get sick of this after a year.”

“Never. We can renegotiate after five years if you want, but this isn’t ending.”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed notes will be up later. When I have the free-time, I will expand on the Paris night since so much happened there.
> 
> Also, the mental picture is blatantly riffed off of Before Sunrise.
> 
> As is the entire concept, which was blatantly riffed off of The Last Five Years.
> 
> Tumblr is [here](http://electronique-brain.tumblr.com). Don't worry, I'm friendly.


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